


Brave Enough to Die

by Pand3mic



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Not Really Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 00:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6882622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pand3mic/pseuds/Pand3mic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew from the moment he laid eyes on her that she was different; that she was an angel. But how could he, a street fighter without a name, ever be worthy of her?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brave Enough to Die

He was riff-raff. He was a deviant, not quite a criminal but all but regarded as such by the regular, upstanding members of society. While they made their livings creating things- building, debating, leading, teaching- he made his by destroying them. More specifically, destroying people. He was a boxer. Seven nights a week, he wrapped his wrists and forearms in tensor bandages, stripped off his shirt, and stepped into the ring. Sometimes he won. More often, he lost. Every time, he spent the early hours of the morning washing the blood from his face in preparation for the next night's fight. He wasn't living the dream, but he was alive, and that was enough.

That didn't mean he couldn't appreciate the finer things in life, though. He let his eyes skim the horizon each night as he walked (or limped) home from his latest fight, observing the twinkling lights of the city as they flickered out one by one. Every so often he'd hear music drifting from the Empty Set, where concerts were often held. When this happened, he almost always stopped to listen, just for a moment, before continuing on to the small flat he called his own.

After the first few times, he'd found himself drawn to that music. It had been a particularly bad night. Blood still oozed from his left nostril. The corresponding eye would be black and bruised come morning. But the voice he heard... it numbed all the physical pain he was feeling as if the air itself had filled with morphine. So he'd hesitated, looked from the direction of the Empty Set to the distant outline of his lonely apartment and back again, then started off in the direction of the foremost. He'd just listen for a few minutes, he told himself. Then he'd go home and nurse his busted face and wounded pride.

That was the night he first laid eyes on her. The posters promoting the concert called her Red. He felt the disgusted glares of common folk on his battered body- he was wearing a shirt now, at least, but that hardly masked the injuries to his face that on some days rendered him almost unrecognizable- but he ignored the eyes that followed him. He was accustomed to them by now. He pushed his way through the crowd, gently but insistently, until he found a vantage point he could be satisfied with. He wasn't sure when his mission had changed from simply listening to her sing to actually seeing her, but he wasn't thinking about that right now.

His eyes settled on her as she began a new song, one that was apparently very well known if the reaction of the crowd was any indication. Whereas they had been cheering, screaming her name, just seconds before, they now fell silent, watching her as if bewitched. Perhaps she really did have them under a spell. She'd certainly captured his attention. She stood at the microphone, the rest of the stage as barren as the name of the concert hall might suggest, and sang. All red hair, ruby lips, and a flowing gown the color of cream and gold. He was immediately entranced by this creature so much more pure than anything he'd ever seen before... but alas, that trance did not last long. He was not welcome here, and those surrounding him were making that quite clear. So after a long moment of watching and listening, he retreated.

That would not be the last time he saw her, though, or heard that voice like a siren's call. From then on, every time he heard music coming from the Empty Set after a night of fighting, he would detour away from his path home and slink to the edge of the crowd, just close enough to get a glimpse of her as she sang. Slowly and steadily, night by night, he began to inch his way closer, until the crowds that came to see her perform were well accustomed to his presence among them. Even if they didn't like it, they came to tolerate it, not that he cared either way. He just had to see her.

He came out of the fight one night still a loser, but a little less bloody than usual. It took him less than a minute to hone in on the faint sound of music, and like he always did, he took that as his cue to maneuver away from his apartment and towards the source of the sound. He found his way to a corner near the front, the closest to her he'd ever dared venture, and watched through shaggy hair as she glided onstage for her performance. Something in the atmosphere felt different tonight, felt crisper and more taut like the string of a bow before it snaps, but he paid it no notice. That mistake would cost him greatly. Would cost him his life.

She sang that same song again, the first one he'd ever properly heard her sing, and within seconds he was as enraptured as the crowd around him, watching her, hearing her, worshiping her. It didn't make any sense for him to care so much, for him to hold on so dearly, to something- someone- that had no actual connection or tangible value to him... but in a way, she represented everything that he didn't. She was everything good in this world, everything he could never have. He coveted that... but above all, he wanted to protect it. Wanted to check, every so often, to make sure that it was still there. And it always was.

He wasn't sure why he noticed the sword before everyone else. In hindsight, perhaps they had and just hadn't reacted quickly enough, or hadn't cared to. In hindsight, his actions had been the epitome of foolishness. He wasn't living the life of a prince, but he wasn't totally miserable either; certainly wasn't suicidal. He had no reason to give his life for another, especially not a stranger... but as soon as he saw the flash of blue metal, it was as if his body was moving on its own accord. And if he could physically stop it, he found, he had no desire to try.

The sword lunged at her out of the thick of the crowd. Where it came from, he couldn't say, and neither could anyone else that was there that night. What he did know was that it was as if time itself grew still and, without a moment of hesitation or an ounce of regret, he broke free from those surrounding him and crossed the distance between himself and her within a single heartbeat. Chivalry and good form were lost on him; he pushed her aside with all the grace he possessed in the ring- that is to say, none- and took her place, in front of the microphone, watching from outside of his own body as the sword meant for her entered him instead. A startled cry escaped him, amplified by the microphone before his lips, the microphone meant for her and no one else, and then he was falling... and then blackness. But through the darkness and the pain, it wasn't himself he was worried for.

It was her.

It was Red.

Please, let Red be safe.


End file.
